


Slipping Anchor

by derryderrydown



Category: Persuasion
Genre: Age of Sail, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Anne rejects him, Wentworth still has the Navy. And I get to write a naval battle!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipping Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> Naval afficionados will recognise the Battle of Lissa, with _Laconia_ taking the place of _Cerberus_, albeit with a few tweaks for narrative causality.

Lieutenant Anson tumbled into Captain Wentworth's cabin in a breathless plunge. "Sail to windward, sir!" he gasped and was gone before Wentworth could ask for clarification.

In a few seconds, Wentworth was on deck, fastening his swordbelt over his nightshirt and breeches. "Where?" he asked Benwick, but it wasn't necessary; everybody was staring northwest and the sails of the French-commanded squadron were as clear on the horizon as he'd expected.

Wentworth ran up to the topmast crosstrees, from where the ships were visible hull-up. He took a sharp breath at the sight of the enemy squadron and murmured a quiet, "By God..." But by the time he'd slid back to deck, he was smiling with a cheerfulness he hoped appeared natural.

"Six frigates, gentlemen," he said, "with four or five unrated to add spice."

Wentworth saw trepidation growing on the faces of some of his crew. Beside him, Anson swallowed deeply and Wentworth had to fight down his growing irritation with the man. Caution was all well and good but Anson took it to extremes that approached cowardice.

"And we," Wentworth said, "are four." His smile grew. "I confess, I like these odds."

"As do I," Lieutenant Benwick said, and met Wentworth's gaze with a sharp nod. A first lieutenant who distinguished himself in an action like this was one step closer to being made commander. It was an important consideration for any man but especially for one who waited impatiently to be in a position to marry. And, Wentworth thought, with a tinge of the familiar bitterness, who was fortunate enough to be waiting for a woman who didn't consider a mere commander beneath her notice.

"Signal from the flag, sir," Midshipman Thomas reported. "Form line, _Amphion_, _Active_, _Volage_, __Laconia__."

"Very good. Benwick, join line once _Volage_ passes. Oh, and I think we might clear for action, don't you?"

"Aye, aye, sir," Benwick said, his smile fierce. "Bosun, call up the larboard watch and clear for action. Shiver the topsails until _Volage_ is past then fall in astern."

The shrill whistle of the bosun's call pierced the air and Wentworth decided to take advantage of the wait for action to go below and dress properly.

* * *

While he prepared to shave, he frowned slightly.

At least three, and he suspected four, of the French ships were heavy frigates of forty guns. In comparison, the strongest ship in the British squadron was the 38-gun _Active_ while little _Volage_ was rated at only twenty-two. And _Amphion_ may have 18-pounders but, like _Laconia_, she had only thirty-two of them.

Still, he had won against far worse odds, and he had faith in Hoste of _Amphion_ as a commander. The man had, after all, served on Nelson's quarterdeck, and he'd proved himself since taking command of the squadron.

And there was the added spur that victory was essential.

The tiny island of Lissa was crucial; the key to the Adriatic. Without the refuge of the harbour at Port St. George, British vessels would be forced to return to Malta or Sicily, severely curtailing their activities.

And Dubourdieu's squadron carried a batallion of infantry, ready to subdue the island.

No, Wentworth decided, and made the first sweep of the razor across his cheek. Defeat could not be permitted.

* * *

By the time he came back on deck, dressed in trousers and his oldest tunic, with his heavy, boarding sword at his waist, the four ships of the British squadron had formed close line and were sailing towards Lissa, clearly aiming to intercept the French. "Heave the log," Wentworth ordered, and the report came back that they were making just over five knots. "Bosun, pipe the hands down, mess by mess, for what breakfast they can snatch."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"You should eat something yourself, sir," Benwick said quietly.

"I will," Wentworth said, but he was paying no real attention. This close to battle, his attention was all for his ship. "I'm going aloft to get a better idea what we're facing."

From the foretop crosstrees, he could see all of the French ships clearly. The familiar _Favorite_ was flying the commodore's flag and with her were _Corona_, _Danae_ and _Flore_, all forty-gun ships. _Bellona_ and _Carolina_ were both 32-gun and he'd estimate the brig at sixteen guns, the schooner at ten and the xebec at less than that. The two gunboats were of less concern, being more likely to cause trouble for the island's shore defences.

He leaned back against the mast and looked forward. Barely visible past the smooth curve of the flying jib, he could see _Volage_. Like _Laconia_, she was cleared for action, but had only half her crew on deck, the rest no doubt eating below. As he watched, Captain Hornby turned and caught his eye from the quarterdeck. With a smile, he touched his hat and Wentworth returned the gesture, before Hornby turned back to study the French squadron.

Dubourdieu had formed his ships into two divisions, each of three frigates and several unrated vessels, giving each division greater strength than the entire British squadron. Combined with the advantage of strength was that of the weather-gauge, and the French were losing no time in forcing the engagement.

All for the good, Wentworth decided. It was the wait for action that sapped a crew's courage.

He was about to slide back to deck when a roar of cheering burst out from _Volage_. He looked up sharply to see signal flags at her mizzen, passing on the message from _Amphion_, and a moment later his own crew burst out in cries of, "Huzzah!"

Six hoists, and it only took a moment to translate the message: "Remember Nelson."

Wentworth laughed out loud and added his own, bellowing, "Huzzah!" to the shouts of his crew, before swinging his leg over the stay and sliding to the deck fast enough to leave his hands a little scorched.

"Pipe to quarters," Wentworth called as he mounted the quarterdeck. The bosun's call shrilled out loud but there was hardly any noise in response, certainly not the usual deafening tramp of feet; the men were already at their posts.

"Well, Benwick," Wentworth said, loosening his sword in its scabbard. "Ready for a good fight?"

"Always, sir. Let the French come and we'll give them a proper English trouncing."

"Anson?"

"Yes, sir." There was no enthusiasm from the man; there never was, no matter the order. If the man was ever promoted commander, he'd meet the news with the same wide-eyed look of alarm as he greeted everything.

But then _Amphion_ fired her first broadside, and there was the familiar surge of exultation, overwhelming any fears, as he gave his own command and _Laconia_ let loose.

For now, with the French presenting their bows to the British, the smaller squadron had all the advantage and Wentworth had every intention of pounding it home. _Laconia_ had been fortunate to have largely the same crew for three years and their training showed.

_Laconia_'s timbers shook and she rolled as all sixteen of her starboard guns fired within moments of one another and he tensed with an unthinking joy in the whole thing; the sound of the guns more feeling than noise; the sharp tang of powder, already drying his mouth; and he wondered if he could feel the same with the responsibility of a family ashore.

_Danae_, leading the leeward division, was suffering for it and unable to bring anything more than her light bow chasers to bear. Even so, the chasers were enough to tear up the occasional flying splinter and Anson already had flecks of blood on his face. Wentworth suspected he did, too, but he had no time to consider it.

Another thundering roar from the starboard guns, staggered now as some guncrews worked faster than others, and Wentworth's grip tightened involuntarily on the taffrail as he stared in the direction of the enemy. Although the wind was blowing his own powder smoke away to larboard, it was also leaving the French smoke between the squadrons and his guncrews were aiming at nothing more precise than a cloud.

"Signal to wear," Thomas shouted above the roar of the guns.

Wear? Wentworth thought frantically. Was there sea room? The Lissan coast was close to larboard, a bare half-cable away. But, of course, Hoste had spent several days charting this very coast - and it was good odds that the French hadn't.

"Wear ship!" Wentworth roared and his crew sprang into action. "Helm to starboard!"

Slowly, _Laconia_ turned to larboard, moving quicker as her mizzen stays'l was hauled down and her mizzen tops'l allowed to shiver. With the main sheet eased, the wind caught her head sails and paid her off to leeward.

"Loose main bowlines!"

And the _Laconia_ shuddered, lurched, and her smooth turn to leeward stopped, leaving her hanging.

Wentworth's first thought was that they'd struck bottom but Benwick's cry of, "Rudder's hit!" relieved that fear, although the Lissan coast was looming ever closer ahead of them and _Volage_ coming up to starboard.

"Clew up maintops'l and main t'gallant! Hoist inner and outer jibs and sprits'l!" He stared anxiously at _Volage_ and called Thomas. "Signal to _Volage_: 'Keep clear; am manoeuvring with difficulty.'"

If he could just get enough power on her head sails to swing her round without the help of the rudder, they might still make it. And then a ball whistled overhead and the mizzen topgallant mast seemed almost to crumble into the sea, and he could have shouted with the joy of it.

With the remains of the mizzen topgallant mast acting as a sea anchor, _Laconia_'s head swung round with that tiny, vital amount of extra speed and he was able to give the order to shift the jib sheets over the stays. An anxious moment of wondering if he'd given the order too soon and condemned his ship to fall onto the shore, and then the jibs caught, he ordered the mizzen stays'l hoisted and they were able to join line, between _Volage_ and Action.

"The rudder's shattered and the pintle's bent," Benwick reported, soaked to the skin from his inspection of the damage, "but it's repairable. I've got Crayton and Sayers hammering the pin straight and the carpenter's putting together a new rudder. He says less than half an hour."

"Good." Wentworth glanced around, and wiped blood from his eye. "Where's Anson?"

"Gone below to have a splinter wound bound up."

"Damn him," Wentworth said, and instantly regretted it, but Benwick gave no sign of having heard.

And then there was no time for conversation as he made out _Corona_ through the smoke to larboard and the speed of _Laconia_'s guncrews came into play. This close, accuracy had nothing to do with it and he wished he had some of _Volage_'s 32-pound carronades. His own twelve-pound balls were having no effect on the Venetian ship while her eighteen-pounders, along with those of the more distant _Carolina_, were throwing up splinters and-

With a noise audible even over the cannon, the fore topmast was hit hard enough to snap it in two.

"Damn their eyes," Wentworth cursed. "Clew up mizzen tops'l! Set the forecourse!"

Benwick was already ordering the remains cut away but it meant calling off men who were working on splicing the mains'l clew garnet block and bowline bridle and it was the usual complaint of never enough men.

_Corona_ was moving ever closer and, damn, _never_ enough men. If she chose to board _Laconia_, he was done for. His only hope was to storm her first. Swing _Laconia_ to larboard, lash her on, and be prepared for his crew to be slaughtered.

It was that or strike his colours.

And then the choice was taken from him as another frigate came up between _Corona_ and _Laconia_, ghostly in the smog. He'd give the bitch one last broadside from musket-shot range before he surrendered, though.

But the smoke cleared for a second and - that was Captain Gordon. The frigate was _Active_! _Active_, by God!

_Active_ let off a ragged broadside at _Corona_. The Venetian frigate returned it but fractured, barely half her guns firing, and then she was gone, making a run for safety with all sail set.

"What's our condition?" Wentworth demanded as Benwick returned to the quarterdeck.

"The rudder's replaced. The fore topmast's being prepared, the main t'gallant mast can barely hold its own weight and we've four feet and growing in the hold."

"Then we can chase," Wentworth said, and he knew his grin was as wild as Benwick's, both their faces smeared with sweat, blood and dust. "Let's see if we can't stop _Active_ having all the fun!"

"Aye, sir!" And Benwick had never looked happier to receive an order.

* * *

The chase gave them time to repair the worst of the damage. The carpenter and his mates had patched the hole beneath the larboard cathead and _Laconia_ was no longer taking water too fast for the pumps to keep rate. Nine seamen, including Lieutenant Anson, had been committed to the sea, with only the briefest of ceremonies. A replacement mizzen topgallant mast had been swayed up, the main topgallant mast fished in place, and the fore topmast was being replaced now.

Just as importantly, the crew had rested and taken some dinner, and Wentworth himself, politely hounded by Benwick, had finally given in and eaten. Despite Benwick's exhortations, he contented himself with a piece of cold pease-pudding, eaten on deck as he trimmed _Laconia_'s sails and tried not to think about Anson. He would deal with that guilt when he wrote to Anson's parents. For now, he desperately tried to coax enough speed out of _Laconia_'s poor, shattered rigging to keep _Corona_ in sight.

They were making seven knots now and _Corona_ and _Active_ were still easing ahead, flying over the sea with occasional spouts of smoke from _Active_'s bow chasers to show the fight was still going. And he desperately wanted to be up there with them but there was nothing he could do to speed up repairs and, until the foretopmast was replaced, he was too limited in what sail he could hoist on the other masts.

But then there was a shout from the foremast and a beautiful, beautiful tumble of sailcloth from the foretopyard, and they stood a chance, at last!

"Hoist fore t'gallant!! And get the mizzen tops'l and driver up!" And the slight hum as he touched _Laconia_'s stays told him that she was flying as fast as she could. "Heave the log, Carew."

"Ten knots and a little over a fathom, sir!"

Thank God for a fleet frigate and the wind to make her run.

"We'll be catching up with _Corona_, lads," he called. "What say we show her what English seamen can do?"

The roar from the crew gave him his answer.

Wentworth ran up to the foretop and raised his glass to study the two ships ahead of them. _Active_ still fired her bow chasers occasionally; more, he judged, out of hope of luck than expectation of skill. In contrast, _Corona_ was putting everything into getting away and, as he watched, she began to pump her water.

"She'd do better to take in some sail," Wentworth muttered. With the wind this far aft, _Corona_ was stealing her own wind by hoisting so much canvas. And it was telling because both _Active_ and _Laconia_ were creeping ever closer.

He slid back to deck and found Benwick waiting for him. "Sir, I think the men might take it well if we gave _Corona_ a shot or two from the bow chasers."

Wentworth smiled. "The men?"

"The men," Benwick confirmed but his mouth was tight with suppressed laughter and it was no secret that Benwick dearly loved laying a gun.

"I see no reason why not," Wentworth said and it was a matter of minutes before the starboard bow chaser spat out a ball.

It fell short, of course, but roused a cheer from the crew, and he left them to it as he went to see what other sail his ship could bear.

"Signal from _Active_, sir." Thomas' tunic was soaked with blood and his head was bandaged but he stuck rigidly to his station and Wentworth made a note to commend the youngster in his report of the action. "She'll engage _Corona_ from windward; requests you engage from leeward."

"Signal acknowledgeme-"

A jubilant cheer erupted from the fo'c'sle and young Carew came tearing aft. "We've hit her, sir!"

"Report properly, you young fool!"

The boy snapped straight. "Report we've parted her starboard mizzen shrouds, sir."

Wentworth clapped his glass to his eye. And, by God, the boy was right. Her mizzen was sagging to leeward, her sails dropping. Whether by luck or skill, Benwick had indeed brought it off.

"Back to your station." Wentworth glanced up at _Laconia_'s sails. "Hoist maintop stays'l!"

They crept ever closer to the fleeing _Corona_, Wentworth agonising over each cable gained, fighting the temptation to fuss further with _Laconia_'s sails. She was carrying what she should and there was nothing he could do to will her faster.

But with every cable, _Laconia_'s gunfire grew more accurate until Benwick left it to the gun's captains and returned to the quarterdeck, his jacket scorched with burns.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Wentworth asked.

Benwick's smile was bright in his powder-blackened face. "Of course."

"We'll give _Corona_ something more to worry about," Wentworth said. "Yaw ship and give her our starboard broadside."

"Aye, sir."

The helm was put hard to lee, and Wentworth gripped the taffrail as _Laconia_ surged round and her broadside bellowed out, then she was allowed to fall back onto her old course. Wentworth peered through the clearing smoke and could just make out the wreck of _Corona_'s mizzen. More smoke as _Active_ loosed her own broadside, and all the while, _Corona_ was swinging to leeward without the mizzen to counteract her headsails.

Closer still, with guns pounding constantly and _Corona_ taking fire from both sides.

"Why will she not just strike?" Wentworth shouted.

"Would you?" Benwick asked, and, after a moment, Wentworth shook his head.

"But I wouldn't fight to the last man. She must see she hasn't a chance."

"Wait." Benwick snatched his glass from his pocket, and opened it to find it shattered. "_Damn!_"

Wentworth pulled out his own glass and handed it to Benwick. "What is it, man?"

"Can you see her colours?" Benwick asked, passing the glass back, and Wentworth studied the Venetian's masts through the smoke.

"By God... Cease firing! _Cease!_" It took time for the order to filter through but, by the time the last gun fired, the smoke was clearing and the empty masthead was plain.

"Signal from _Active_ \- request you send a party to take possession of _Corona_," Thomas said, talking loud enough that it was plain he was still deafened from the guns.

Benwick's slow smile was filled with disbelief. "Gordon's letting me take _Corona_ in?"

There was no need to say more. Whichever lieutenant captained _Corona_ into harbour would be near guaranteed the step to commander - and Gordon was letting that honour go to Benwick.

"Well, man," Wentworth said, "what are you waiting for? Take a prize crew and take possession!"

"Aye, sir." Benwick was rapidly coming back to himself but, before he left the quarterdeck, he paused long enough to salute his captain, then firmly shake his hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank Gordon," Wentworth said. "And, Benwick?"

"Sir?"

"I expect to be invited to the wedding." Saying it hurt more than he'd expected.

Benwick's smile was vivid. "That, sir, I can fairly guarantee."


End file.
